


Porn

by AsbestosMouth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety Attacks, Attempted Seduction, Don't Panic!, Drunken Shenanigans, Flirting, Fluff and Humor, Frotting, M/M, Porn watching for research purposes, Sexual Inexperience, The plants are his children!, Tumblr Prompt, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 01:54:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8268298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsbestosMouth/pseuds/AsbestosMouth
Summary: Willas Tyrell is perfectly happy living alone, with his plants, doing STEM research, not caring at all about the messy 'sex thing' that everyone else seems really obsessed with. That is until the day Oberyn Martell moves into the flat a few floors above him and knocks on the door, needing to borrow some sugar.  Because then? Then he starts seriously caring about the 'sex thing.' Tumblr fic prompt fulfillment - Oberyn has been casting bedroom eyes in his direction for weeks now, and Willas knows what that means. Actually, he has no idea what it means, and that's the problem. Oberyn is a very confident and very experienced man where Willas is not. He takes matters into his own hands by watching lots and lots and lots of porn, knocks back a few shots, and makes a move. What could go wrong?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SassyEggs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyEggs/gifts).



> _This was supposed to be a Tumblr fic. However, it got a bit...big._

 

* * *

 

 

Willas stares at his miniature rose bush ( _Rosa_ _Rainbow’s End_ , butter yellow petals warming to pinkish orange at the edges), considers, then snips a single leaf from the thorned stem with the bonsai scissors he keeps for such a purpose.

 

There. Better.

 

Living in an apartment, in King’s Landing, even in the newly gentrified area of Flea Bottom, means having no garden. He copes with that minor irritation by having a variety of plants arranged along the long deep windowsills. He needs the greenery, and the lush foliage, and the blossom. It reminds him of home, and Willas? He still gets a little homesick, even after five years living in the capital.

 

At least the other occupants of the converted warehouse are pleasant enough. The layout caters more to singletons and couples; those with plenty of money. The views, after all, lift the heavy stone building from the mundane and towards the spectacular. From the roof terrace, which is designed as a central meeting place/garden (though Willas twitches to see the poor planting, the lack of consideration, the regimentation of shrubbery), all four corners of the city rise, phoenix-like, from the smog. Visenya’s Hill basks in the distance. The Red Keep looms, rather too close for comfort it seems, but that is because Willas spends most of his waking hours in the bowels of the place, working for a living (which, according to Olenna but she indulges him, is very un-Tyrell).

 

Stannis and Davos live on the top floor, with Shireen. They’re a decent couple, Davos is perfectly lovely, and the girl interested in sciences. Every week, he makes the trek upwards in the swishy state-of-the-art lift to tutor biology and chemistry; physics, though Willas is still competent at it, was not his doctorate, after all.

 

The floor below is empty, though rumour has it that someone is moving in.

 

Brienne and Jaime occupy the middle floor flat. Willas has a tiny crush on. Both of them. At the same time. It brings a strange giddying heat to his face when he sees them casually slung about each other and wearing the same sort of clothes. From the rear they could be twins. They have lovely rears.

 

Willas’ own abode, his little nest, covers the first floor. The light isn’t as bright as higher in the building, but if the lift breaks (a fear of his, considering his knee), then it is only one flight of stairs to lug himself up.

 

For some reason, the ground floor is full of students. He’s not sure of their names, but he’s mostly convinced the one in eyeliner is Jon, the one in ridiculously tight jeans in Theon, and the one he could take home to meet his grandmother is Robb. Others orbit, like electrons about a nucleus. Thankfully the apartments are well insulated and sound proofed, but for students (and Willas was an exception to the usual rambunctious rule of young men attending university and away from home for the first time - he was accused, daily, of being utterly boring because he wanted to actually pass his exams) they are polite and considerate.

 

“I need more food for you, don’t I?” The rose agrees, silently, and Willas rubs a careful thumb across a velvet-delicate petal.

 

The knock at the door is unexpected.

 

* * *

 

“Hello, how can I-?”

 

Oh.

 

Dark eyes, the colour of very expensive coffee flecked with spices, meet his.

 

“Ah, you are Mr. Tyrell, yes?” Purring. How a man can purr, Willas isn’t quite sure, but this one is. He sounds like one of those sleek jetty-furred cats from Essos that they keep in the King’s Landing Menagerie. For a strange and dizzying moment the urge to stroke the black glossy hair is quite overwhelming.

 

“Um.”

 

Dammit, Willas!

 

“Um. Yes. That’s me. Mr. Tyrell. C-can I help you?”

 

When faced with unfairly handsome men, Willas can usually cope - admirably, he adds. He’s used to the students, and Jaime. His local pub seems to attract hordes of good-looking males from across the Seven Kingdoms and beyond, and, as he’s expecting to run into attractive people when he goes outside, that’s okay. He’s prepared, like the Boy Scout he was before the car accident destroyed his leg.

 

When a beautiful man with an accent that sounds rather Dornish appears on his doorstep, lounging against the doorframe?

 

As he’s rapidly realising, it throws him. Gone is the affable, friendly, good-natured Willas who can chat to anyone. Welcome the stammering idiot who is painfully aware that a really hot man is inches from his home, ten feet from his bedroom, and is wearing the sort of shirt that is unbuttoned halfway down his leanly-toned chest. Tanned toned chest. With chest hair. And nipples. And things.

 

Lust at first sight is a very un-Willas sort of reaction. To be perfectly honest, so is lust at any sight. It isn’t his sort of thing. That is what makes the entire experience so very bizarre, so very foreign, sending him into a dizzying, worrying place where he’s very aware of his own breathing, heartbeat, the prickling of air against skin, that insanely gorgeous man. Everything focuses, rather too much, rather too quickly, and he fights off an urge to slump to the floor, wrap his arms around one of the man’s calves, and cling like an abandoned koala bear.

 

“It has come to pass that I seem to be lacking in sugar-”

 

“I have sugar. If you need.”

 

“You are most kind, Mr. Tyrell.” Those ridiculously dark eyes flicker, once, and Willas has the odd sensation of being examined. The lava-scorching gaze takes in bare pale feet, and rather jaunty pyjama bottoms (it’s a Saturday, Willas needs some time out of suits, why dress when you’re in your own home? they’re comfy, they are covered in cupcakes, he blames bloody Loras, this isn’t his fault!), the plain grey t-shirt that has an unfortunate smear of damp earth across the belly, then back to Willas’ face.

 

Which burns, disconcertingly.

 

“Ah, I would be most grateful if you could lend me some.”

 

What? Lend him-oh. Sugar.

 

Heart hammering, and feeling peculiarly damp between the shoulder blades, Willas rapidly limps to the cupboard, finds a spare bag of sugar, and limps back, pressing the paper bag into those lovely erotically long-fingered hands. “K-keep it. I don’t. I mean. I’ve got lots of sugar. Tonnes. It’s fine. It’s lovely meeting you. Yes. Sorry.”

 

The man smiles, ever so faintly, causing the lines at the corners of those sinful eyes to crinkle. Melting? No. Willas isn’t melting. He’s not the sort of man to melt when tall, athletically built Dornes with accents, nipples, and really well-cut trousers that cling to impressively toned thighs turn up on his doorstep and ask to borrow something. He refuses to give in to himself. No. Stop that.

 

“Sugar,” murmurs his new neighbour, “is not the sweetest of items in your apartment. My thanks, Mr. Tyrell.”

 

As Willas shuts the door, quivering and remembering to finally breathe, he realises two things. Firstly, he never introduced himself - attractive Dornishman must have got his name from the post boxes on the ground floor. Secondly, he was so shaken by being knocked up (hah!) by the other that Willas didn’t even offer him a coffee, or ask his name, and left him standing on the doorstep like some sort of inconvenience, and how appalling is that?

 

* * *

 

Right. He can do this. He shifts his weight carefully, always conscious of his knee, straightens his shoulders. This will be fine. This will just be an interaction between two neighbours. He’s a Tyrell, for Gods-sakes. A millennia ago his ancestors were intermarried with royalty and were practically kings of the Reach. Olenna breeds strong-willed and clever grandchildren, who she nurtures and grows to be wildly successful men and women.

 

So why is Willas trembling?

 

Breath in. Hold for five. Breath out. Count to ten.

 

Cleansing. Breathing is really useful, for all sorts of things, but mostly for not fainting, falling, knocking his head, and dying embarrassingly in hospital hooked up to a thousand bleeping monitors.

 

He knocks on the door, and waits.

 

For a long moment, he’s sure that the Dornishman isn’t in. He hears no movement, and Willas resigns himself to leaving his peace offering on the doormat. He’s built himself up into a bit of a tizzy, because over the last few days the new neighbour has grown from merely terribly handsome and alluring to this all-conquering sex God in his head, and that makes him achingly nervous.

 

Turning, about to leave, then the snick of a lock and a smile that could power half of King’s Landing freezes him in place.

 

“Ah, my sweet neighbour. To what pleasure do I owe this?”

 

“I b-brought you some biscuits. To welcome you.” Shireen baked them, because Willas is utterly hopeless at cooking unless it involves drinking wine, or microwaving things until they give in and die. “I’m sorry.”

 

The Dornishman steps back, hand languid as he invites Willas into his abode. “Why do you think you must be sorry, when you provided me with sugar?”

 

“I didn’t invite you in. I didn’t introduce myself. I didn’t ask your name.” At least the stammering calms a little, and Willas congratulates himself hugely.

 

Warmth and incense hits him like a mallet to the temple as he slips into the apartment. Gone are the red accent walls of Beric Dondarrion, replaced with bronzes, and russets, and sumptuousness. In his life, Willas has been to Dorne but once (field trip with university, studying genetic composition of the wild desert horses) and the kasbah in which he found himself utterly lost comes to mind. The effect is luxurious, and welcoming, and all that bit too sensual with undertones of bergamot and jasmine. For a man who likes sensible magnolia and prefers the adornment of his own apartment to be merely plant-based, it seems so very heady and exotic.

 

“Wow.” The carpeting is as plush as the surroundings. Willas wishes he’d forgone shoes, just to wriggle his toes in sheer fluffy bliss.

 

“Tea?”

 

Yes. No. Best not to stay. The man sets him on this mental pivot, where Willas see-saws wildly between an alien lust that morphs some sort of internal terror, and it is best not to be seriously weird at a new neighbour. At least, not yet. His eccentricities should be hidden and quietly released into the wild in a trickle, rather than set on an unsuspecting person all at once.

 

“That’s terribly kind, but I won’t trouble you. Lots to do, I’m sure, but I just wanted to bring these. They’re spiced Dornish gingerbread, I thought they’d make you- Oh Gods. You are Dornish, aren’t you? I’ve not insulted you in your own home? Look, I can get others, if you prefer? I just thought. The accent? I just assumed, and made an ass out of myself as always. Well done, Willas. Oh. Willas, that’s my name. Obviously. I am so sorry. I’m not usually so, you know-” Unable to flail helplessly with the biscuit tin under one arm, he clenches his hand into a fist, nails digging.

 

And there goes the promise not to be too odd. Right down the drain.

 

A finger trails heat over the inside of his wrist, across veins that shimmer blue beneath ridiculously pale scholar skin, and Willas suppresses a shiver at the touch.

 

“So very sweet,” whispers the man, in Willas’ ear, and he’s suddenly very, utterly, shockingly aware of a hip brushing against his backside. “To bring me my most favoured of biscuits, to welcome me, is so very kind of you. Willas.”

 

The way the man says his name - a caress, a lingering upon the first letter and then a flirtation with the rest - is really far too sexy for Willas’ own good.

 

“I’m so sorry. I’ve no idea what your name is.”

 

“Oberyn Martell.” Taking the tin from a rather limp Tyrell arm, Oberyn Martell places it upon the pristine black granite kitchen surface. “Will you not take tea with me, Mr. Tyrell?”

 

“I should. Work. Things. Must do. Oh. Sorry.”

 

“You apologise too much.”

 

“Sorry. Thank you. Sorry.”

 

* * *

 

It keeps happening. Willas, minding his own business, and then a knock at the door, or a hand upon the small of his back with a thumb caressing the base of his spine at the post boxes, or Oberyn insisting on helping him carry shopping to his flat while asking how his knee is. Those dark eyes linger, Willas blushes horribly, and can’t deal with these things called emotions.

 

He has a crush. A massive, disturbing, giddy-making crush.

 

On a man.

 

It isn’t unusual, because Willas is after all partial to those of his own gender (or masculine women who could break him with their muscular thighs, like Brienne, or Theon’s big sister Yara) and has been aware of this since he hit eighteen. Jaime makes him warm, and fuzzy, but perhaps since he is claimed by Brienne doesn’t really punch him in the gut like Oberyn does? Or, in all realities and universes, perhaps Oberyn is just...well. Oberyn?

 

One of a kind. They broke the mold etc.etc.

 

Willas is one of those late developers.

 

He’s kissed people. He’s not managed to get to twenty eight years old without snogging. Even Willas, as bookish and obsessive over his schooling and working life, managed to get off with four separate people in his life. Three men, one woman, and he did enjoy the sensation. He’d even gone back to her rooms, with the intent of losing his virginity, but they never quite got around to it. Everything was perfectly fine until she removed her rugby shirt, and then he’d been hit with the sight of a quite lovely pair of breasts and, well, he Willas’d out of the entire thing. Apologised far too much. Panicked.

 

They’d ended up eating ice cream, watching pirated copies of box sets on her laptop, and Dacey asked him, point blank, if he took it up the arse.

 

Northerners. Blunt to a fault.

 

Considering no one has ever been there, he couldn’t really give any sort of answer. Dacey, bless her heart, and they are still good friends, offered to take him to one of the sex shops in the sleazy end of Flea Bottom and get him a dildo.

 

So, the legend of Willas’ disinterest in sex was born. It began from embarrassment at panicking, and then fed, engorged, grew strong. How much easier was it to explain that sex wasn’t his thing, rather than have his friends and colleagues asking him endlessly about partners, and whether he was getting any, and if he wanted to do certain people? Far easier - and less personally terrifying - to feign dislike of the entire messy situation and have done with it; to exist in this bubble where sex and everything that comes along with it didn’t matter, one iota. And, of course, like many white lies, Willas came to believe it himself.

 

He wasn’t a sexual being. He couldn’t be bothered. Far too sticky, and emotionally and physically taxing, and, to be honest, he didn’t need anyone else in his life. He was perfectly happy being on his own, with his family and plants and friends, and above all of that.

 

Until Oberyn Martell.

 

It is a little like being hit around the head with a cosh, and waking up concussed and with tiny cartoon hearts floating about his head. Why he has this visceral reaction to the man, Willas has no idea. No. Wrong. He does know. Eyes, and teeth, and the sexy-scruffy facial hair, and the long sleek panther-lines of his tanned fit body, and the trousers that are a little too snug, and the accent, and the way he smells of some sort of delicious spicy and musky cologne, and the purring, and the amazing backside, and. Oh. Everything.

 

Plus, and this makes it even worse, Oberyn is clever. Sophisticated. Lovely to talk to. He speaks several languages fluently, and others passably. He plays the Dornish guitar, under the stars, occupying the roof garden. His legs are amazing. There is a mole on one of those swooping collar bones that Willas finds imperative he must taste. It would be far easier if the handsome Dornishman were merely a gorgeous body and face. Adding in a mesmerising personality, a carnality that makes Willas’ mouth dry, and those come-to-bed eyes that drive simple Tyrells to a certain frenzy? Totally, utterly unfair.

 

This isn’t supposed to happen.

 

* * *

 

Matters come to a head (hah!) the Night of the Spilled Milk.

 

For some reason, and Willas could not quite understand why, Oberyn seemed to borrow many things from him. Nothing large, nothing expensive, and always replaced. Over the eight weeks he had been at the apartments, they shared sugar, coffee, pasta, dishwasher tablets, a bottle of wine when a woman called Ellaria came to unexpectedly visit (and Willas isn’t jealous. No. Not at all. Maybe a little envious, but the woman is very attractive and Dornish, and obviously Oberyn’s type given the way he kissed her before -  for some reason -  seeming to check Willas’ reaction. Strange, and he’s no idea why the man would do that), washing up liquid. The usual sorts of items that friendly neighbours swap amongst themselves, really.

 

Milk.

 

Willas’ after work ritual is always the same. There’s a lovely feeling of familiarity that gives him the sort of ease that someone who is prone to panicking likes. Continuity, and understanding. He enjoys knowing what is to be done, what has been done, what the future holds. Safe, and secure, and sensible.

 

He arrives home rather later than usual, bone-exhausted, tempted to just curl into a ball on the settee and doze under a blanket. Work, at this time of year, with the number of racehorse breeders needing DNA checks on their stock, is stressfully busy. He can at least rely on Clegane, but Bolton is mercurial and given to temper tantrums, and had to be removed for time out after attacking some poor secretary with a stapler after she dared step too near his collection of antique gelding knives. Why Ramsay keeps them in the office, no one knows. Sandor is good at the practical side of the job, but slow with report writing, so more pressure heaps upon Willas, and he absorbs the work because he must, before coming home and collapsing in a big messy heap.

 

His knee aches. His back aches. His head pounds unpleasantly. It takes every little piece of willpower he possesses to strip off and shower. The scalding heat helps, a little, along with a handful of what Loras calls ‘the seriously good shit’ that Willas needs to keep his wrecked leg under control sometimes. He stands there, mindless and dazed for a good twenty minutes, unable to think about anything but how exhausted he is. Finally he gets out of the shower, towels off rudimentarily, pulls on the soft black flannel pyjama bottoms that make Willas feel snuggly and comfortable. They are his favourites, brought out for especially taxing days, and feeling a little more human he’s about to go and make a cup of tea when someone knocks at the door.

 

In a more alert and slightly less pill-driven state, Willas would not open his front door half naked, still damp. He’d ask for the person at the threshold to give him a minute, go and pull on a top, and then welcome his visitor fully dressed.

 

But, the Night of the Spilled Milk, as it comes to be known, is unusual. Willas, yawning, unlocks the door, opens it, and-

 

Oberyn stares.

 

As a person, Willas is quite aware that he’s sort of average, bordering on scrubs up well. He’s slender and leggy - coltish, the word might be - with the sort of pale skin that aristocratic women two centuries before would be jealous of. He looks nice in clothes, and Loras bemoans that Willas got better Tyrell cheekbones than him. Margaery calls him adorably wide-eyed and innocent. Mace tries to convince him to go to the gym and bulk up a little, so he doesn’t look so willowy.

 

“Ah, I have caught you at a most opportune time.” Oberyn continues looking, his eyes narrowed and contemplative. Thoughtful.

 

“Sorry. I’m just out of the shower.” A beat, a thought. “Do you mean inopportune?”

 

When Oberyn Martell licks his lips, all warm pink tongue over plush redness, Willas feels the blush start somewhere near his toes.

 

“Most opportune,” he repeats, in that wet leather velvet voice of his. His gaze flits, constantly, from cheekbone, to navel, to clavicle, to where flannel sits on Willas’ hips. “I return your milk.”

 

“Oh. Um. Thank you.”

 

The blush accelerates horribly as their fingers brush; the pint bottle, sweating and cold, is a mere sensory blip compared to heated skin. It is nothing at all.

 

Which is why Willas drops it. All over himself. Soaking his favourite flannel pants.

 

“Oh Gods, I am so clumsy! I’m so sorry. Hells. Milk is so hard to get out. Cloth. Need a cloth-”

 

A finger slides into the elastic at his waist, stopping him from racing to the kitchen, and in a moment Willas is silenced, shocked, turned on as Oberyn tugs to keep him in place, just so very lightly. Here he is, panicking about spilled milk (not crying over it, not yet, thankfully), and here his handsome Dornish neighbour is, with his hand closer to Willas’ genitalia than anyone has voluntarily got before.

 

“You are covered in milk.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Dripping.”

 

Oberyn tilts his head, skims a fingertip from the waistband of Willas’ trousers, dipping into his navel, pausing at his sternum, before popping his now liquidy fingertip into his thoroughly amused mouth.

 

It is the most erotic thing that Willas has ever seen in his entire life; obviously the electric caress of milk and skin sends him plummeting towards a flat-out panic. He pulls back, vaguely aware the stretch of the elastic means he might have shown the beautiful man a little more than he’d like, stumbling slightly, heart somewhere between his belly and throat.

 

It’s...too much. Too much, and he rubs an arm across his face, manages to get some semblance of control back from the strange trance-like state he’s been in since the moment he opened the door and saw Oberyn before him. Too much, and he doesn’t know what to do, because if he were someone else (someone who put social lives and sex before studying and success) Willas would be dragging Oberyn to bed, where they’d rut, covered in milk and other substances, for the foreseeable future.

 

But, he is Willas. He is inexperienced, and unable to take that step, and he manages a weakly nervous smile instead.

 

“I best clean up,” he whimpers, horribly aware that the milk soaks into his flannels, accentuates his pelvis and thighs. At least the fabric is thick; translucent cotton would be showing everything he has to those wandering heated bedroom eyes.  

 

Oh Gods. Part of him is appalled and embarrassed. Part of him wants to do wonderful, possibly illegal things with Oberyn. All of him is aware that he’s not sure what those things are, because his experience is so lacking, but he wants them, whatever they are. Because, to be perfectly frank, Oberyn makes him Think Things. About sex, and more than that. Not just vanilla missionary politeness, but darker things that involve silk, and mouths, and teeth, and being held down at the wrists and told that he should allow himself pleasure. Sometimes Willas wants to be told that everything is fine, that he’s allowed to be human and have emotions, that someone will look after him and let him fall to depravity and cradle him as he plummets. That he can let himself go, and how he winds himself up so much of course means he has panic attacks every so often.

 

Over the last eight weeks he’s touched himself more than in the last year.

 

It hits him, horribly, that basically this is what teenagers (and while Willas was one of them, once; he read encyclopaedias, completed homework, and did as his Grandmother told him rather than actually being the usual rebel) feel like when faced with their true sexual awakening. This is not the realm of twenty eight year old men with hugely successful jobs in the DNA sector who sometimes masturbate over very mainstream pornography.

 

“Of course.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“Never apologise, sweet one.”  Oberyn smiles, and, for some insane maddening moment, decides sucking on that finger that slithered across Willas’ chest is a great idea.

 

*****

 

_20:13: Loras? u there?_

 

**_20:15: Im here bro!!!!  What can i do u 4????_ **

 

_20:16: howre u & Renly? u ok? _

 

**_20:21: were down the pub. u should be 2!!!! cum & have a drink w/ur fave sibby :D:D:D:D_ **

 

_20:21: milktastrophe i got 2 clean :(_

 

**_20:24: clumsy willas is clumsy!!!! :D:D:D:D_ **

 

_20:26: i kno i kno. can i ask u a weird question?_

 

**_20:32: i luv ur weird questions!!!!_ **

 

_20:33: how do u kno what 2 do w/sex?_

 

**_20:47: ...OMG. R U A VIRGIN!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!_ **

 

_20:49: u kno im a virgin. stop bein mean._

 

**_20:51: OMG IS THERE SUM1 U WANT 2 FUCK?!?!??!?!?! TELL ME OMG!!!!!! I NEED 2 KNO SO BAD!!!!! ARE THEY TOTES HOT?!”?!?!?!?!?!?_ **

 

_20:52: ur punctuation scares me_

 

**_20:52: HAS GOT PHOTO?!?!?!?! :D:D:D:D_ **

 

_20:54: no. just tell me how u know what 2 do when uve not done it before? Like techniques & things? _

 

**_20:57: porn. lots of porn. pref amateur cos its more real. OMG!!! BROTHER IS BECOMIN A MAN GOT 2 TELL REN!!!!!_ **

 

_20:58: dont tell renly plz? makin me feel nervouser now_

 

**_21:02: if i promise not 2 tell ren u got 2 giv me all the goss ok????!!!! lik cock size an shit_ **

 

_21:02: how do u kno its a man?_

 

**_21:03: im ur bro and been waitin 4 u 2 cum out 4 lik years k?_ **

 

_21:04: h8 u_

 

**_21:05: u love me im ur fave sibby :D:D:D:D_ **

 

**_21:06: but really loads of porn & vodka and jump him k? u totes need 2 b nailed make u less uptite and itd b nice 2 see u happy. ur 2 cute 2 be on ur own!!!! worry bout u wil._ **

 

_21:06: m ok. thanks tho. ur a good brother_

 

**_21:08: u work 2 hard and shit. go live & get fucked k???? Luv 2 my plant nefews lol!!!!!_ **

 

* * *

 

Porn.

 

Willas can do this. He’s showered. He’s clean and fresh. He’s replaced his flannels with more easily accessible jogging bottoms. The ancient tube of lubricant that has been sitting in his bedside table drawer for about three years has been fished out, use-by date considered, any issues with it being out of date Googled for safety’s sake, and he’s treble checked the front door is locked and chained. With it being Saturday tomorrow, he can, if he so wishes, ‘make a night of it.’

 

There is a lot of porn on the internet.

 

He’s been aware of that fact for quite a while. Sometimes, rarely, he indulges, treats himself, allows his libedo to actually kick in. The usual stuff he finds himself interested in is glossy, and slick, and everyone is very clean and tidy. It’s all well produced and has excellent editing, and mostly bisexual, but he does find himself mesmerised by the men more than the girls. The women tend towards very much not his type; large-breasted and curving hipped, all long hair and makeup. He finds himself thinking about Yara, or Darcy, or Brienne in comparison, and wonders why there isn’t any pornography that appreciates the differences that can be found in the female form.

 

There probably is. He’s too scared to really dig around in the depths of things.

 

He searches, as carefully as he can, making sure everything he searches is incognito and non-recognisable. Willas is that sort of man, after all. Nothing to sully his work area, his beloved browser that remains pure and virginal.

 

Like him. He is his own version of Google Chrome.

 

Finally, he settles on a site. Loras, taking pity, sends him a URL.

 

It is...vast. Vast, and grubby, and very unlike anything he’s seen in his life before. The site asks for his preferences, and, since this is an educational foray into the world of gay sex, he says he’d like to look at men, please, thank you. A drop down menu helpfully suggests categories that he might be interested in. For accuracy’s sake, Willas clicks into each area.

 

It would be so much easier if there was a Dornish category, but thankfully this website seems to eschew the often quite disgusting racial categorisation, preferring to concentrate on the acts themselves.

 

With Loras recommending ‘Amateur’ as the best place to start, he leaves that until last.

 

‘Daddies’ is. Well. Not his thing. Having a father like Mace means the word is tainted; Daddy is the sort of man who drinks like a fish, and has an almost sexual love of rugby, surprisingly fancy shirts, and defaults to eating large bowls of pasta while wearing nothing but his boxer shorts. Admittedly that had been during the period that Mother had been visiting her relatives in Oldtown, but the memory of his rather chunky, rather hairy father stuffing fettuccine into his mouth still lingers, like a terrifying bad smell.

 

Obviously this means ‘Bears’ are out, though the quickest of glances reveals someone who looks upsettingly like Mr. Mormont, his old departmental manager, having relations with a slender silver-haired boy who’s obviously going for the Targaryen look.

 

‘Targaryen’ is a category in itself. As is ‘Dragons.’ It would be far easier to just re-categorise everything as ‘Valyrian Miscellania.’ Also, Willas now knows what dragon penis dildos look like. For science.

 

‘BDSM.’ Um. Some of it is terrifying. Some of it is intriguing. Some of it looks horribly painful, and really, shouldn’t there be a governmental health warning with some of these practices? Some of it makes him wonder how anyone can fit anything that big in there, at all, but when he discovers ‘Fisting,’ he finds himself crossing his legs and weirdly transfixed. How? Why? But?

 

‘Twinks’ reminds him a little of himself, though Willas doesn’t look like a fresh-faced nineteen year old. He’s shadowed under his eyes, and wan, and looks every inch of a man nearing thirty who doesn’t get to go in the sun and exists on a diet of ready meals and wine. Dacey tells him he looks like a pre-Raphaelite boytoy with consumption, but she studied Art History as well as the History of Medieval Kingdoms, and she’s prone to either go off on romanticising people, or cheerfully telling them what torture equipment she’d use on their various soft and fleshy parts.

 

Which brings him back to BDSM, and Willas shivers.

 

‘Bisexual’ (been there, seen that). ‘Leather’ reminds him far too much of Bolton, who is forever wrapped in the stuff. Knowing Ramsay, he’s probably got videos on here of his own perversions, which probably fit neatly into ‘BDSM’ and ‘Leather.’ Willas almost cross-references, with a sick sense of car-crash wanting to know, but tells himself not to be such an idiot. Working with Ramsay is difficult enough. Working with Ramsay having seen him balls deep in a gimp would really make things awkward.

 

‘Blow Jobs’ does exactly what it says on the tin. Out of all of the categories he’s searched, this one seems to be less fetish-based and more sex-orientated. Useful, if you will.

 

Willas settles back a little, laptop on the coffee table, and finds a notepad.

 

Research is possibly his favourite thing apart from sequencing DNA, Arbour Gold wine, and his siblings. He loves investigating, building a case, presenting it in a neat and well-considered manner. Throughout school, university, and his career, Willas has been renowned for his attention to detail and his thorough nature. It is a skill that can be taught, to some extent, but the passion and desire for knowledge must be in place to truly excel; he has that in spades.

 

  * Suction usually applied on upstroke. Careful of foreskin (if present) on downstroke; can be torn with overly rough handling if not used to such.
  * Teeth depending on individual preference. Ask partner if required. Default keep lips covering.
  * Google ways to dampen gag reflex.
  * Ascertain personal hygiene of partner before beginning task.
  * Tongue? Licking glans seems to be favoured, and urethral slit. Evidence of moving tongue while taking shaft in mouth found, though highly depending on size of organ. Contact with _corpus spongiosum_ essential?
  * Length important only in as much to utilise hand if particularly large.
  * Lubrication essential. Saliva is most usual, but flavoured lubrication also possible. Research to see if allergic to any additives in such.
  * Swallowing considered most polite?



 

Having covered the oral sex side, Willas meanders through the remaining categories. None of them grab him; perhaps he is entirely too picky, or his body is waiting for something that he’s unable to find, but for the sake of completion he allows himself to watch exactly three highest rated videos from the selection provided in each section. To be perfectly honest, they do help. Not so much the specialised acts themselves, but how the men touch, and kiss, and act about each other. The variety of how one can manhandle another man borders on the astounding, but he finds himself more drawn to the more sensual, caring lovers, even if they are trying to insert objects the size of a small terrier within various orifices, or look more menacing than Cersei Lannister sober.

 

Two more left. Willas finds himself in ‘Bondage.’

 

Not literally.

 

Many years before, at around the age of seven, Willas discovered science. It happened quite by accident; a textbook found in a packing crate somewhere in the endless maze of Highgarden’s attics while looking for information about his ancestors for a school project. He clambered down the ladder, dusty and sneezing, the precious tome in his damp little hand, and Olenna found him, three hours later, absorbed in osmosis and convinced that one day that he, Willas Tyrell, would become an eminent scientist.

 

Which he has done. His seven year old self had no clue about advances in DNA, how he’d end up at the forefront of this exciting new branch of scientific breakthrough, and that he’d be sharing a laboratory with a certified psychopath and a man who prefers horses to actual human beings. To young Willas, the information that his present-day self processes and understands would tend towards the mesmerising, the wonderful, the inexplicable, but seeing the science blossom before him would feel so very right.

 

Somewhere, behind that rushing fizz in his ears and the bright spots of light that seem to be boring through his eyeballs, Willas understands, completely, what that child would go through if given access to all of the scientific knowledge the world holds dear. After all, he’s having the same _Come to the Seven_ moment with ‘Bondage.’

 

Silk scarves, and blindfolds. Handcuffs. Bizarrely beautiful Myrish knotwork. It’s everything that ‘BDSM’ whispered, but without the whipping, biting, and unfortunate abuse of various body parts. Those who are tied down trust their partners. They trust them to the point that they give up bodily autonomy and are commanded by their caring bedmates. There is leather involved, and Willas, suddenly, realises he has a vast fascination for various pairs of boots, especially the riding ones, and when the spanking starts he has to wriggle from his jogging bottoms and sprawl naked and panting on the smooth brocade of his settee. The spanking devolves into fingers, and lube, and tiny helpless moaning gasps from the man who is lashed to the bed by what look like neckties, and he’s begging - _begging_ \- for that cock to be put in him, _please_ , and _fuck me, Stranger, fuck me please, Sir!_ and Willas, who is suddenly hot, and sweating, and stroking himself in time to the fingers lovingly stretching the the whimpering man open, whines in counterpoint.

 

Temptation yawns, and he wonders if he should use his own fingers on himself, but he’s too close to orgasm to even scrabble at the KY laying innocently on the coffee table. Too close, and too desperate, and too overwhelmed by finding something that scorches his mind and sets his entire body aflame like some sort of burning effigy of shocked want, he manages to keep stroking, trying some of the techniques he’s watched, eagerly. A twist of his hand, a caress of his thumb to the prepuce, and the moment the camera angle changes - and this is amateur, filmed on a mobile phone obviously, and it catches the squelching glory of the entry and the long, drawn-out groan of the man astride the other, and the keening desperation of the other as he’s entered, and Willas climaxes messily, wordlessly, brain-meltingly.

 

Blearily he realises there’s semen across his laptop screen, before flopping backwards in a pile of cushions, drying sweat, and boneless collapse.

 

* * *

 

Right.

 

Three shots of whisky still burning awkwardly in his chest, Willas takes stock. Saturday nights are usually rather quiet in the apartments - Shireen and her Dads are off to their holiday home on Dragonstone. Brienne and Jaime go hiking across various romantically soaking wet moors. The students tend to end up staying at the homes of their various friends, love interests, or parents, so go missing for most of Saturday and part of Sunday. This leaves just Oberyn, who that morning, seeing Willas nursing a stiff back (he woke up eventually at quarter to seven, mostly frozen in an awkward position and thankful he managed to muster the wherewithal to clean himself and his laptop off at some point) offered to massage him better.

 

“My hands, my sweet Willas, are most healing. Allow me to make you feel so very good?”

 

The temptation lingers, like a sweet wine, but Willas, unfuelled by alcohol, and still shaken by his self-discovery and mind-melting orgasm, babbles something about hot baths, and lavender oil, and scuttles back to his own flat with his heart hammering and the remnants of porn floating in his head.

 

Now, however, he is not so much drunk as sailing on a gentle river of courageousness that affords a certain buoyancy. Willas occupies that warm fluffy area of being tipsy that tends towards soft duvets, and hugs, and giggling at adorable photographs of kittens falling off things even more adorably.

 

One of his patented Tyrell in for five and out for ten calming breaths. That’s much better.

 

How should he do this? Suave? Can Willas even attempt that? Try for sexy sophisticate wielding a convenient bottle of the red Dornish wine that Oberyn praises (rather too cloying and sour for a Reachman’s tastebuds, brought up on Arbour Gold spritzers and rosewater gin fizz)? Undo another button of his shirt (and there are a heady two open already, which, for Willas, is unheard of) and lunge the moment the door opens so as to preempt any awkward questioning with a good old snogging session against the hallway wall?

 

Even as he strategizes, Willas understands that planning this is a fool’s errand. The moment Oberyn unlatches his door and smiles in that eternally sexually-primed way he has, all will be lost. Words will fail. Hands will shake imperceptibly. One look at the man, and babbling is likely to occur. Lots of it, in very random ways.

 

Courage is a trait that Tyrells have in abundance (apart from when it comes to dealing with Olenna, who all of the grandchildren adore, but sometimes she has the oddest ideas about their wellbeing and happiness) and, pulling his shoulders back, he channels the strength of his various ancestral namesakes. Courage. Determination. Go in there and get that man, if he is amenable to being got, and obviously they need to have some sort of conversation otherwise it might get weird if Willas just kisses him without asking it that’s fine, and perhaps they should discuss what this is, whatever it is, that might be happening between them? If it even does? Because, really, Willas has no idea if Oberyn is being flirty, or actually coming on to him, or whether this is what he just does with everyone, and it could be horribly awkward if-

 

“What are you doing, Willas, lurking so prettily at my door?” Amusement, and Willas hopefully detects an indulgent fondness. In his reflective state, he did not even notice the door being opened, and Oberyn Martell - tight jeans, unbuttoned black shirt, bare feet, nipples - regarding him with a certain interest.

 

“I. Wine. I have some. I thought maybe you’d like to drink it.” A pause, as Oberyn’s beautiful eyes paralyse his vocal chords for rather too many seconds. “If that’s okay?” Oh Gods. Embarrassing. Swallowing, focussing, he manages a watery smile.

 

“You brought me red? So very sweet of you.” Fingers brush his as the man takes the bottle, thumb trailing along the long neck. Willas’ head immediately wonders if that’s what Oberyn’s hands do when stroking a cock, and. Yes. Wrong thought to have. Such ideas are the fault of all that porn! Blood, frustratingly, rushes to parts of him that really do not require it, because thinking and talking are far more important at the moment than getting a suggestion of an erection. Especially as Willas decided to wear actual jeans - jeans! - and the nicest shirt he owns. Loras bought it with impunity, saying that it is for going on dates, and it does fit nicely he has to admit. Slimmer cut than his usual fare, and a lovely soft fabric; sometimes Willas sneaks into his wardrobe in order to rub the viscose mix against his cheek.

 

“It’s Dornish.” Obviously. The label screams it.

 

“I thought we-”

 

“Perhaps you would-”

 

They laugh, and it breaks the tension a little, at least.

 

“You first, Willas.”

 

“I thought,” and the courage of his august family rises, phoenix-like, from the ashes of Willas’ terror, “we could drink it together?”

 

* * *

 

Willas Tyrell, Oberyn decided months before, is delightful. He steps about Oberyn like a skittish filly who craves the attention of a stallion, all legs and wide eyes, and possessing the sort of nervousness that besets a youth who cannot understand his attraction to another. Charming, and according to Ellaria - who is sleeping with the Greyjoy woman, whose brother is one of the students who lives in the ground floor apartment, and who frequents the pub where Loras Tyrell, Willas’ brother, is to be found - above all others in goodness. All he hears is the decency, the kindness, the warm-hearted tender nature that sets Willas upon quite a pedestal according to his peers. Others desire, yet do not approach. It is rumoured that the eldest Tyrell sibling is, alas, asexual. No romance caresses his life like the soft lips of an ardent lover. None have been to his bed.

 

Yet, when Oberyn catches the expression - the shock, the heat, the longing in those pretty hazel eyes that first morning they meet - he knows there are hidden depths to this handsome man with the pale fingers of an artist, the stammering rich Reach accent. Passion, as yet unstoked, beats in the heart of Willas Tyrell. Want, and need. Desire, that blazes bright and unnoticed by even those who are closest.

 

It fascinates Oberyn that no one has peeled the layers, feasted upon what seems forbidden fruit. Are they blind? Are they mad? Or, more likely, do they look upon those who are more easily understandable? More obvious in their need?

 

This is not the first time that Oberyn has awakened the sleeping ardour of another. He is most experienced in the ways of love, and sex, and lust. His lovers span continents, and decades, and genders, and sexualities. They are handsome older women who desire one last fling. Beautiful youths, full of promise, so very alive, so very certain. Beggars to princes, and all in between. He has tasted a hundred nations, and thoroughly enjoyed them all.

 

Ah. Willas - with his curling brown hair that he tries to keep tamed, and long eyelashes that sweep his soaring cheekbones, and the intense shyness of a man unused to feeling such heady and powerful wants - is special. Not only is he pretty in the wide-eyed way of someone who does not know how lovely he is, but he is clever. Sweet-tempered. Humorous in a rather self-effacing manner. He shares his chattels without complaining, almost begging Oberyn to not worry about replacing anything - of course Oberyn does. To see the genuine warmth colouring that porcelain-skinned face, marred with smudges of exhaustion at all times and a tension that makes his lips more luscious? More kissable? He needs more of this. More. He borrows items he already possesses, just to witness Willas in his own habitat, his nest, his cream-walled ivory tower.

 

The evening of the milk, where he was determined to claim the man as his own, turned most fascinating and frustrating in turn. Soaked flannel clung, accentuating Willas’ cock, the lean lines of endless thighs and hip bones. No underwear. The rivulets of milk trickled along skin so very pale, so very beaten cream smooth. Willas, underneath his lovely suits - he dresses well, if a little conservatively - is a slender wraith of a man. He needs feeding, and tending, and love making. Spoiling. Oberyn knows he exists upon wine and microwave meals. Appalling! Headily, he thinks of ways to tempt the other to eat. Perhaps Willas naked beneath him, whimpering, Oberyn riding his cock tormentingly slow while feeding him bite-sized pieces of rice and fish? Perhaps slowly enough that his Tyrell will not be stimulated to climax before he has finished his healthy supper, and then, once the sushi is eaten and the wine drunk, then and only then shall he be allowed to come?

 

The natural shyness won out. Instead of Oberyn finally possessing the elegant body of his neighbour, instead of laving milk from every inch of skin with his wanton tongue, Willas panicked. Natural, in one so untested. Understandable.

 

So very near. Weeks of seduction; lingering glances and touches, flirtatious smiles, chance meetings. All gone with milk, and blushing, and Willas’ want bubbling so very obviously. When he left the younger man had taken to his knees, scrubbing at the carpet, and yes, how tempting does Willas look upon his knees? anguished eyes flittered needily to Oberyn’s face.

 

“Oberyn?” Willas, glass in hand, seems strange this evening, though in a way that perhaps suits him. Shadows flit across his face, the cosmos blackness of pupils dilated and turning golden brown and green into something dark and desiring. Leaning in and rubbing soothingly at the tantalising softness of the bottle-green shirt, fingertips finding the edge of leather and denim at Willas backside as he idly rubs the small of the man’s back, Oberyn realises why.

 

Willas. Lovely Willas, swaying like a rose in a breeze, is a little drunk. Not much. Just enough to tamp-down the ever-present rigidity of self-control, to ease that innate anxiety that can cripple, to soften his gaze, to make that sweet-lipped mouth smile. Having had Margaery and Loras in the past, parts of Willas are a delicious amalgam of them both; the crooked smirk of the woman but more honest, more kindly. The curling hair of Loras, but darker, neater. He is, however, his very own person. The Tyrells are a most beautiful family. Two thirds of the siblings are very aware of their loveliness. Their breathtaking looks are used, and teased, and flaunted. Willas, however, who is not as showy or obvious or sexually aware but is their equal in looks, has no idea.

 

Theon wants to fuck Willas, and, yes, Theon wishes to fuck everyone, but according to him the Tyrell in the flat above them is one of those untouchable men who drive him insane. Like Robb. Shireen thinks he’d make a lovely boyfriend because he’s so kind, and decent, and her fathers tend to agree. Dondarrion, who he bought the apartment from and who he knows socially - everyone knows Beric, who is six foot five of solid muscle, with a cock to match, and too kinky even for Oberyn’s tastes - speaks warmly of Tyrell.

 

“He’s bloody gorgeous, Oby.” They signed the contracts, celebrated in the local pub. Dondarrion’s reason for moving to a larger place, complete with a second bedroom that he’s kitting out as a sex dungeon, menaced other patrons just by standing at the bar quietly and ordering a diet Coke from Davos.

 

“Your partner?” He eyed black leather, skin-tight denim, pale eyes that told him if he dared touch Beric, Oberyn would end up as a corpse. Ramsay? Not a little possessive of his far larger lover.

 

“Willas. He’s in the first floor flat. Loras’ big brother, but far better. Dead nice, as well.” A twinkle in those amber eyes told Oberyn that there was matchmaking in progress. Dondarrion adored matchmaking his friends.

 

“Go on.” Their knees touched under the table; Beric was excellent in bed, and possessed the pain tolerance of a concrete elephant. His perversions were such that he even managed to break Oberyn - always willing to try everything at least once - who turned out to not be overly keen on hardcore BDSM and setting fire to body parts.

 

“He’s the sort that you can take home to your Mum, though he’s weird in a seriously adorable way. Huge geek. He’s in STEM research.” Beric’s warm-eyed expression grew curiously fond. “Always helpful, always decent. He tutors Shireen upstairs, and sometimes the students, and just drifts around looking. Well. Really cute. Amazing arse, but he’s a bit breakable for me. Your type, mind. I know you like your skinny intellectuals.” After a pause, he laughed. “No, you like everyone. My mistake. To be honest, I think he just doesn’t do sex or relationships. I think he’s above all that.”

 

“As pretty as Loras?” The youngest Tyrell and his boyfriend, installed in a booth, argued about wedding venues.

 

“Classier. Not as obvious. I think he’s better looking because he’s not as bloody smug as Loras.”

 

Hmm. Interesting.

 

* * *

 

“Oberyn?”

 

“Yes, my rose?” The nickname shivers over the smooth skin of Willas’ throat.

 

“I-”

 

Patience. A virtue that Oberyn possesses, along with his many sinful and wildly fascinating vices. He is a man who embraces carnality, who adores pleasure, who swims in debauchery. Others think him a whore, or a slut, but he is not ashamed of who or what he is. Dorne, after all, is licentious. Open. The false prudishness of the rest of the Seven Kingdoms does not apply in the heated deserts, the drifting sands, the promise of Sunspear. Dornish attitudes to sexuality are healthy. They do not hide what is natural, but embrace and encourage, and support.

 

His fingers shift, so very slightly, massaging circles upon the small of Willas’ slender back, and oh, those lovely eyes half-close with the caress.

 

“I watched porn.”

 

That...is unexpected.

 

“Did you, sweet one?” Nearer he shifts, thigh to thigh now, hip brushing against that neat backside. Oberyn finds he is fascinated with the certain fragility in the man’s body; even though they are almost of a height, he feels larger, stronger, as if a panther stalking an antelope through the Essosi savannah.

 

“Yes. Because.” Willas shivers, breaths in, holds it, breaths out for longer. “Sorry.”

 

“Nothing”, and his mouth is so near the long column of that neck, and, if Oberyn dropped his head just half an inch, he could run his tongue across pristine clean skin, “to apologise for.”

 

“Because,” and he sees the way Willas catches control. It is most fascinating to watch. For a moment he expects bolting, and having to masturbate yet again, but there is steel in the man’s spine, and a certain tipsy courage. “Because I’ve never done. It. Before. I just...didn’t know if you’d like it if I didn’t know what to do. If you do want to do it with me. I-I think-”

 

Oberyn nuzzles, the curve of his aquiline nose catching the sharpness of Willas’ jaw, and beneath his touch goosebumps breed and multiply. It is so very easy to trail his hands up snugly denimed thighs, to catch at muscle and bone and hips, to press himself fully against the blushing man. Smugness blossoms as Willas’ breath shimmers, breaks, when it registers that Oberyn’s cock, half-hard and thoroughly interested, presses snugly into his perfect little arse.

 

“Oh Gods. Oberyn.”

 

“Speak with me of the pornography, Willas,” he murmurs, voice low, husky. “Tell me of what you watched? Perhaps we shall watch more, yes? You and I, upon the settee, enjoying it together?”

 

Willas, whining, ends up with his head resting upon Oberyn’s shoulder, exposing his throat almost submissively. Of course his mouth must taste, and teeth graze so very gently along heated blushing flesh. Of course Oberyn rocks his hips just very slightly, in order to have the man whimper, throatily, hands clenching into fists.

 

“I-I just didn’t know what I liked, so I asked...no, I didn’t Ignore that bit. Very much not sexy, that, I just. Anyway, I browsed a lot, and some of it is a bit not me, see? I thought I best look at lots, to see how it all works, and to learn. Oh Gods. Blowjobs. I made a list of things that should be included, but I could? With you? I would, it looks. People liked it? Not just the one having it, but the one with his mouth around. Down there. On his-”

 

“Say the words, Willas,” he whispers, turned on beyond all sanity. Such innocence, and blank canvasness, and Oberyn realises, dizzy and moaning as he nips the softness of an earlobe, that he could create perfection for himself with teaching Willas sex; he can shape a perfect lover from the raw clay of this lovely man. Of course, he’d ruin Willas for anyone else, but...is it such a terrible thing, to be selfish? To want this sweet-minded, delightful man, with his good nature, and exquisite reaction to just being touched?

 

“Cock.” The colour in Willas’ cheekbones darkens.

 

“Good boy.” Another shudder. “So very good. Tell me more, Willas? What did you like? What made you excited? What made you stroke yourself?”

 

“Oberyn!” Whining. Oh, such sweetness, such need. He cannot resist walking long, experienced fingers across the dip of Willas’ pelvis, cupping him through his jeans.

 

He’s hard. Very, very hard.

 

“Tell me, sweetling. Tell me what you like?”

 

“They were. Oh Gods. That’s amazing. Please? Please, Oberyn?”

 

“Tell me, lovely one,” and he smiles against damp skin as Willas writhes in his arms, “and we shall have you climax for me.” Perhaps this is a little advanced? The man is a virgin - untouched, and innocent, and utterly desirable - but to research how to make love, and to ascertain his own wants? Very scientific. Very arousing indeed. Willas, perhaps, needs a teacher, and whoever that is, must know upon which subjects to concentrate.

 

Frotting is, indeed, underrated as a tool in the lovemaking arsenal. All seem so very intent upon moving straight to fucking; as if placing a body part within another body part is the only act that truly counts in regards to sex. No. Oberyn, veteran of many sexual wars, knows better than that. Every inch of skin is an erogenous zone. Every centimetre of a person must be worshipped, adored. To move to the mechanics of fucking so very soon is to miss out on a myriad of wonder.

 

He knows he could have Willas now, upon the plush new carpet of his apartment. He could break that slim body apart, take him, leave him with the deep-seated pleasurable ache of being fucked by a man who knows how to do so and so very well. Easy. But no. Willas Tyrell is more than quick mating, or a cheap encounter. He is beautiful, and responsive, and seems to want to learn if his perusal of pornographic material is to be believed. He looked at porn to learn how to touch, and give, and to try to understand what Oberyn himself might want. The thought crushes his chest. Lovely Willas Tyrell, who does not do sex, who operates above base desire, decided that Oberyn should be his first.

 

“Please…?”

 

“I want to know what you like, so I may give it to you. Teach you.”

 

“I liked. Them. They were tied down.” He shudders once more, with the act of revealing a secret Willas obviously had no idea about until he watched his internet films. Sweet boy, if he thinks a little bondage is so naughty. Before Oberyn, a chasm opens. So many things he can teach Willas. So many pleasures to understand, embrace, become a master of. For this Tyrell, he knows, is a perfectionist - so many who are anxious, who suffer from the fear of failure, are. A scientist, a genius of a man, who lacks confidence about matters he does not know, but who will learn so beautifully.

 

That will be remedied over the coming months, years, decades.

 

Oberyn Martell is passionate, driven by his own lusts, wants, intelligence. He is a Renaissance man, fascinated by art, literature, science, warfare. He rides, and fences, and absorbs knowledge. He fucks, and fights, and feels. Boredom is something he loathes; change, constant and endless, appeals. Apart from Ellaria, his lovers have been transient fascinations.

 

In Willas, who is the most fascinating man he has ever wanted, he sees a strange sort of future which goes beyond physical pleasure. The last time he felt this, he captured Ellaria. They are both more than sex. They are both more than many things. For a moment he sees them both entangled, all long limbs, tawny and cream, making love as he watches their contrasting loveliness.

 

Would Willas enjoy that?

 

“Me, tied down?” His hand, stilled as thoughts race, begins to move. Under his touch, Willas’ cock strains, needy, so very close. Dampness, and tautness of shifting muscle, and Oberyn grinds against the tight backside, wanting friction. “Or you, my lovely, spread out and helpless as I take my pleasure?”

 

Willas keens, body bow-strung and vibrating. As he rocks his head, Oberyn waits for a perfect, clarified moment, and catches his parted lips with the tenderest of kisses. Whisky smokes on his tongue, and saliva, and something essentially rose-sweet and lacking thorns, and he knows the instant the orgasm hits because Willas sobs into his mouth, an iron-gripping hand stilling Oberyn’s wrist to trap him as he comes, helpless and lovely and so very more-ish, into his jeans.

 

* * *

 

“I can’t believe you want Stannis as your best man. Why not Brienne? She’s much nicer than your brother!”

 

“Because he is my brother, and he’s not Robert,” Renly points out. “I think Stan is an arse, but he’d not get drunk, pawn the rings, and go and shag a hooker with the proceeds. He’ll do it properly. And Brienne? Could you imagine Brienne setting up a stag do without going into embarrassed melt down?”

 

“The stag do is going to be soooo boring!” Loras flops theatrically across his partner’s lap. “There won’t be any strip clubs. I love strip clubs. I look at all the underwear and think how hot my arse would be in them.”

 

“So do I, babe. So do I. I’ll talk to him about strip clubs. Maybe we can go to Lys, or Myr, make a week of it?”

 

“Can Brienne come, too?”

 

“You’re obsessed by Brienne.”

 

“She’s the only person all three Tyrells would shag,” he points out, stealing a long swig of Renly’s disgusting beer, just to be annoying. “She’s totally hot. She’s my dream woman.”

 

“You just want Jaime.”

 

“Well, don’t you?”

 

“We’re only human, babe.” They grin at each other. Having been together since they were in school, Loras and Renly are horribly open about everything. They went through puberty together. Hells, they got each other through puberty with mutual wanking sessions, because they were on the rugby team, and full of hormones, and it totally wasn’t gay. Until it totally was.

 

The heavy door of the pub swings open, letting in a chill breeze. As Robb Stark reminds them on a daily basis, since the man is studying to be a weather forecaster for the Meteorological Office, winter is coming. 

 

Willas, hectic cheeked and wresting his umbrella, has leaves in his hair. He looks different.

 

He’s wearing jeans.

 

Loras thinks back to the last time he ever saw his brother so casual, and finds that he’s never seen anything like that. Usually Willas is smart trousers, or his suits, or, when he’d feeling particularly dress down, a soft pair of corduroys. Jeans are definitely a new thing. Is that an aran-knit jersey?

 

This is weird as fuck. Like Willas is. Maybe he’s having a midlife crisis at the age of twenty eight?

 

“Willas! Come sit with us, we’re doing wedding planning.” Of course Loras sweeps his brother into their booth. “You look like you’ve slept? Oh my Gods, have you actually slept, bro? And jeans? When the hells have you ever even looked at a pair of jeans?” They’re not even baggy Mace-style Dad ones, either, and Loras feels that twinge of jealousy as he realises they are seriously expensive and seriously designer. 

 

“Stop being a bitch, babe.” Renly, who loves the Tyrells even more than his own family as they are the sort of perfectly accepting in-laws any man wants, rolls his eyes. “You’re just scared Willas’ll overtake you as the hot Tyrell.”

 

“Margie’s already overtaken him,” Willas murmurs, looking up through his eyelashes, mouth twitching with amusement as Loras has a tiny fake temper tantrum at the thought of their sister being the most attractive of their family.

 

“Nice seeing you outside, Wil. Not often you venture into somewhere that mere humans are, is it?”

 

“I’m meeting someone.”

 

In an instant, Loras perks, expecting. “Is it-?” Him. The mysterious man that Willas wants to give up his virginity for. The hot dude that meant porn watching, and awkward questions, and yes, he totally told Renly about it. Mostly because Loras is the sort of person who can’t keep a secret and needs to tell someone, otherwise he’ll burst like some sort of balloon.

 

“Stop bothering your cute brother, babe, or I’ll not marry you. What do you think about the vintage Sparrow for the wedding car? It looks so much cooler than the Baelish.”

 

“Who’re you meeting? Come on, I’ll see when he turns up.” Ignoring his future spouse, Loras has to stop himself bouncing with excitement. Willas and Renly give him the sort of exasperated loving look that only brothers and boyfriends can. “Is he hot?”

 

“Of course he’s hot,” purrs a familiar voice. Oberyn settles into the booth, sliding over the cracked leather. As usual he’s half-dressed, and sexy as anything, and he winks at Renly who nods, cordially. They all slept together about seven years previously, because of the bucket list, and because if Oberyn Martell offers to shag you, then you do it. And, yes, it was brilliant.

 

“Oh. It’s only Oberyn.”

 

“Ah, so rude.” Martell slings an arm along the back of the bench seat, behind Willas. “You must control your Tyrell, Renly.”

 

“When you work out how I should do that, Oby, then I’m up for your suggestion. Tyrells are not the sort you tie down and make them do what you want.”

 

For some reason Willas blushes, hugely, and takes a long swig of his drink.

 

“So, who’re you meeting, Wil?” Loras reaches over, steals the rest of his brother’s red wine spritzer - when did Willas start drinking them? He’s always been a white wine sort of man - in a bid to annoy him.

 

“Just. I.” He blushes even more, looking at his hands. “I just-”

 

Oberyn smiles, something of the devil in his eyes.

 

“But who?!”

 

“Babe, it’s so lucky you’re gorgeous, because you’re so dense.” Renly puts the tablet down. “Look what’s in front of you.”

 

“Willas and Ober-oh!”

 

Willas and Oberyn? His brother with the hottest man that’s ever come from Dorne, who Loras has slept with? Isn’t that really awkward? It was just shagging, so possibly not, but how the hells did Willas, who is nerdy, and a bit boring, and really into plants and DNA, manage to snag Oberyn Martell? Obviously, being a Tyrell is a massive advantage because they do tend to be really attractive, but really? For a moment he just stares. Willas blushes more, and Oberyn’s arm flops from the back of seat to settle about his brother’s shoulders, fingers playing in his hair and on his neck, and they do look good together.

 

“Okay. You go from not having sex, to having sex with the sexiest man in the Seven Kingdoms? That’s a hellish leap there.”

 

Renly clears his throat.

 

“Hun, you’re not the sexiest guy in the Seven Kingdoms. You’re the sexiest guy in the world.”

 

“Ah, you are the master of the excellent save, Loras. But now, we are going for dinner.” To his credit, because Willas’ knee is never good in the cold, Oberyn helps him stand, assists with his coat, does up each button and rewards that with the softest, most romantic looking of kisses. His brother sways, pleased and dazed, hands resting lightly on the Dornishman’s shoulders, before they are kissing deeper, hands in hair, everyone else forgotten, like nothing else on earth.

 

Renly smiles to himself, places an elbow into Loras’ ribs.

 

“Babe. Stop staring.”

 

“...Willas' going to have to have a plus one to the wedding,” is the only thing he can possibly say in the circumstances.

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> **Tumblr prompts make me happy. Come poink me at[AsbestosMouth](http://asbestosmouth.tumblr.com/).**


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